linnea throe {3} fin . resub

Everyone has a history, it's a given. We're all the spawn of someone, of something, and such bodies give us significance. It's cosmic, written in the stars - the same place our great ancestors now reside. Their bodies a gift to the soils but accepted by skies; their souls are what resonate with the starlight. And against the darkness of the night, it is within the blink of the moon that we live and work.

Trace the leaves back to the roots and it is clear the apple never falls far from the family tree. I have knowing eyes that have seen the sin of every saint, and followed every drop in the ocean to its tear duct source. A lifetime of memories is kept between my lips but I promise to keep the past's monsters at bay, only letting slip the imagination of a thousand childhoods. When you live within the fairytale endings of others, of resurgence and rebirth, it becomes natural to slip into one's own dreams.

Every Throe, blood or not, works like our ancestors: simple, staple ways of preserving life. All it can take is a concoction of various plants and herbs that look like the least, but they can do the most. I've seen the magic myself, it's a perfect kind of beautiful: the very essence of health and fragility that helps in such a delicate but deliberate way. Day to dark, our traditions are what give people peace of mind. Sometimes the very thought of something, someone, being good is all it takes to make good.

Our ability to prescribe remedies and make people feel something other than hurt, whether it be happiness, freedom, health, or simply just good has made them brand us Gods. In some ways, it is true. We hold life in our hands half the time, desperately trying to catch it when it threatens to slip, and playing a constant game with death. Darting left, dodging right to try and keep our family and friends on the right side of a wrong balance.

From the shadows, there will always be voices. Whispers on the street that claim we are nothing more than a farce, that our gift of healing is one sent from the skins of sin, drilled into our minds by devils and demons themselves. Perhaps they aren't all wrong - feeling demons does come as second nature, and embracing them doesn't feel wrong. It is just the nature of my own beast. But my own acceptance is not strong enough to withstand the sticks and stones they throw, and it cannot protect our name from becoming laced with immorality. Friends become foes because of their lies. They say that our medicine is not magic at all.

Some of the people we spent decades stitching together, all of a sudden, fell apart. The loneliness that followed made the Throe blood boil. I consider myself a gentle soul, but the thought of that betrayal turns me from white to red. The sun was seemingly setting and it had no intention of smiling on us again. The night became our brand, our home: we became the monsters under the bed that people talked about when they spoke of their worst fears. The anger that comes with being ridiculed is ridiculously hard to contain. It consumes me at times; ghostly in the face because I am held captive by the secrecy. Gaunt, tiresome, nothing but a shadow of a girl.

Damage control came in the form of Adelaide. Miracle girl. She was certainly cosmic, a testament to our truth and name, showing the world exactly what we were made of. Broken things slowly became blessed through her word, and our religion started to spread like the call of a raven upon the sight of death through Three's family circles. It would link back to our own square; people had heard what we offered and they wanted it. It was a second chance. I'm still young, but I know that the world is not forgiving enough to give out a third.

We took it, and that chance is now what we give back. We promise to make the sun continue to rise in the morning, at the cost of our world staying dark like the night. Part of me thinks that it is for the best; perhaps we couldn't handle the business if every man and his wife came for our remedies. Our secrets remain lock and key, but people need only ask if we are what they seek.

The second chance made me realise that the world is ruthless, but it listens. All the prayers and pleas at night had been heard, and it made me hopeful that things would be okay, stay okay, and maybe turn out good, for us, one day. But second chances are not handed out willy-nilly, and that was a lesson that had to be lived to be understood.

I thought that Adelaide's reaping would create greater prosperity for our name; that the ghosts in the stars would start smiling down proudly because we'd saved her once, and that was enough, and if we could save her again, we'd be deemed great. But she died as simply as she had lived, and in the aftermath, there was a stillness, a silence that was strong enough to turn any christening into a funeral. It was a moment so natural but so sinister too, and I felt every doubt against our family ways like a stab through the heart.

But I am true to my name. Though it may be ancient and losing itself in translation with the contemporary, it burns through my blood to create a bond I cannot break. Because of that loyalty, I never lose faith. My body is on the ground but my mind rises to meet with the heavenly bodies above.

The past shines bright, and this sky full of stars can heal any wound. I know it.